


Different Kinds of Miracles

by Highly_Illogical



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9163705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highly_Illogical/pseuds/Highly_Illogical
Summary: Mr. Graves has just disappeared again, in the blink of an eye, and Credence reflects.Just a quick character study to get a feel for Credence.





	

Credence reached for the spot where Mr. Graves had just disappeared, but there was only empty air left to grab, as if he’d never been there at all. As if he’d never been real.

The only real things about the encounter were a persistent tingle of magic on his palm and the lingering warmth of his touch, but those would fade, and greed was a deadly sin, but God help him, he wanted more of both. If magic was a sin, then by all rights his skin should have felt filthy with it, but all he knew was blessed relief.

He could still see the scars, just faint outlines as a reminder of what had happened, but they looked old and faded, barely visible little things he could have gotten any old time, by accident, maybe, not fresh, burning marks of his wrongdoings.

_Magic is evil_ , he reminded himself. He repeated it to himself at least once a day, but he could see no evil in taking the pain away. Perhaps he’d reached a point of no return. Perhaps he was too wicked even to see things as they were. Surely there was no salvation left for him if a part of him awaited his meetings with Mr. Graves eagerly, his heart leaping in his chest every time he saw a smartly dressed man in the distance and then dropping somewhere under his feet when he realized it wasn’t him.

He tried hard to see the sin in what Mr. Graves was doing, but how, how was healing sinful at all? Jesus himself had healed the sick and the crippled, and turned water into wine, and made more food where there wasn’t enough for everyone. Unbidden, his mind supplied the thought of Mr. Graves laughing at that—not just a mirthless little chuckle like the ones that had escaped his lips before, but a great, deep, honest laugh.

Yes, he would laugh, however disrespectful it might be. He would laugh his heart out, draw his wand and say: “Oh, my boy, that’s easy,” and then do exactly the same things Jesus did, nice things to eat multiplying right before his eyes to satisfy his growling stomach and no one to tell him he was being a glutton. Only they didn’t call it magic in the Bible. They called them miracles.

Mr. Graves used that word liberally. He called _him_ a miracle. He called him special, and all sorts of words that made his stomach flutter more than a thousand whispered spells—but that seemed to have conditions, to hang in a delicate balance he knew he couldn’t keep much longer.

_Find the child_. Credence didn’t understand what Mr. Graves wanted the child for, but it was surely the only thing that kept him coming back, the only thing that kept him from recoiling at the sight of him, and every word, every touch his endless search earned him was something he never would have known otherwise. That was good enough for him.

Hadn’t he been sure that Mr. Graves would know the instant he found what he was looking for, he would have had half a mind to keep the child hidden, if only just for a little while. Just to delay the end a little longer, to make the dream last as long as he could, like when he woke up early in the morning for his chores and dearly wished he could have stayed in bed without Ma berating him for being lazy. Mr. Graves was not like Ma. There was an urgency to his voice when he asked after the child again and again, but he would not strike him for failing in his quest, as he’d initially feared. Surely, as he had the power to make his pain disappear, he must have had the power to cause him much more than he’d ever known—but he didn’t see fit to use it. It was very hard to remember that magic was evil when Mr. Graves was around.

But he didn’t have to pretend the search was still incomplete, didn’t have to add lying to the list of his failings. There really was no trace of the child, or perhaps he’d just missed the signs. But how, how was he to find a child among so many, when he didn’t know what face to look for, didn’t so much as know if it was a boy or a girl, when he could barely keep track of their names on his worst days, when hunger and fatigue from his fruitless rounds of the city trying to attract more people to the cause didn’t even allow him to think straight?

There was that boy with the birthmark on his face, but no, Ma had said it wasn’t a witch’s mark. Mr. Graves seemed to have no such thing, come to think of it— _but it could be where you can’t see it_ , a traitorous little voice added without his permission, lustful thoughts of searching for it on naked flesh flooding his mind. Ma had had to touch it to make sure. He would have to do the same. It was only fair.

His cheeks burned in shame against the chilly air at the thought that he might be… that he might… but it served him right, he supposed. Just one more thing wrong with him, that he would _enjoy_ looking for the mark on Mr. Graves’s skin inch by inch, that the simple memory of his hot breath mingling with his own would keep him up at night with sinful flights of fancy about what might have happened if only he had dared to come closer and allow their lips to touch.

But that, he thought, would really have taken a miracle, of the kind even magic couldn’t do.

**Author's Note:**

> What am I even doing?  
> No, really. Take this as my attempt to take half a step out of my comfort zone just because it was a New Year's resolution.


End file.
